


The Smell of Old Books

by ZoeGMiller



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Lesbian, Masturbation, Romance, Smut, Yuri, shoujo ai, shoujo ai erotica, shoujo ai romance, yuri erotica, yuri romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeGMiller/pseuds/ZoeGMiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Downtrodden office drudge and mother Mariko Kondo is awash in the lonesome sea of her life until a chance encounter with a handsome tomboy clerk sparks wistful memories of her adolescence. With an unfamiliar frisson of passion building inside her, Mariko struggles against this newfound overwhelming need, unable to tamp down the confusion and elation of her dormant sexuality stirring to new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smell of Old Books

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I’m Zoe! If you enjoy this work, I'm available for commissions and I've got a ton of other work on my site, [bespokesmut.com](http://www.bespokesmut.com). Or, if you'd like some smutty flash fiction of your own, feel free to drop a request into my [ask box](http://zoegmiller.tumblr.com/ask) over at tumblr ([zoegmiller.tumblr.com](http://zoegmiller.tumblr.com)) and I'll do my best to accommodate you!
> 
> Happy reading! <3

Is this what you call “existing?”

I’ve spent the past few minutes looking at myself in the dark mirror of my computer monitor. My brown hair is perfect, bangs set just right. My clothing is impeccable, not a wrinkle in my efficient grey blazer or my pressed white shirt. My makeup is clean, lip-gloss still sparkling, even at the end of the day (touched up in the bathroom as it was). 

My eyes are the problem. Watching myself through the particulate dust that coats the screen, I lift my fingers and touch tenderly at my face, pulling down the skin and examining the bags beneath my eyes. I sigh, hoping they look worse in the reflection than they do to the world at large.

It’s the beginning of the week. I can’t be this tired already.

A gruff voice kicks me out of my reverie. “Kondo-chan,” it calls from across the floor. “Kondo-chan.”

I jerk upright and jiggle my computer’s mouse. In an instant, my face is alight with the white wash of a spreadsheet’s glow. Shuttling my keyboard back in front of me, I tap aimlessly at a few keys as my supervisor, Mr. Yoshida, tromps over with an almost alarming haste, given his burly frame, which has become soft with (late) middle age.

His big face is red with effort, but he doesn’t waste a moment on composing himself. “Kondo-chan, you take the Seibu line, isn’t that right?”

“Eh?” I look up from my computer, as if wrenching myself away from some utterly fascinating work. Out comes a delayed nod. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Do you know Labrys Books?”

“Labrys?” I hedge my words carefully and keep my face guileless, playing ignorant of his intent. “I’m not sure…”

“It’s a second-hand shop. It’s right on the way, just before the station. My order finally came in, it’s for my wife—well, for our wedding anniversary, I mean.”

“Oh, congratulations.” I force out the expected, complimentary reply (and a tandem smile). Watching his still-unspoken request materialize in the air like a guillotine, poised to strike off the head of my callow resistance in one fell blow, I meekly brook a small compromise. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to pick it up for you on my way in tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately, the shop is closed on Wednesdays.” Mr. Yoshida shares my impatience for the courtesy game; although his disdain is completely unmasked, wriggling as it is through the fuzzy caterpillars of his thick eyebrows. “And my anniversary dinner is tomorrow night.”

“Ah…” I hesitate. I could try for an indirect dismissal, something like it’s a bit inconvenient for me today, or mentioning how the forecast called for rain this evening…

“I’ve already told them you’re coming. It should only take a minute, thank you Kondo-chan.” 

The cordiality shellacked over his edict is chipped at the corners.

Proclamation delivered, Mr. Yoshida trundles off as quickly as he came under the auspices of flagging down a passing executive from another department. His tone lofts to congenial, now that he’s divested himself of my onerous company. “Ah, Hayada-san, just the man I wanted to see!”

I slump down in my chair and reach out to wiggle my mouse. As the computer wakes once more, I flop my head back against my chair. Counting the many cracks and crevices of the pock-marked ceiling tiles, I hear the quiet tapping of small raindrops begin against the nearby windows…

Sometimes, I think the city is an enormous, sleeping beast, whose roads are jaws, whose buildings are molars. Sometimes, I think the beast that is this city is fitful in its slumber, that the flickering streetlamps and stoplights are the stirring of its sensory system, and that the gusty winds down long avenues are the tremble of its colossal breathing as it begins to rouse. 

By the time I join the rush hour exodus, the light rain has blossomed into a blustering summer storm. Giant raindrops assail me in a riot of wet slaps. I take solace in the fact that being just one (fairly small) ant in the tremendous end-of-day crowd shields me from the rain almost as well as my umbrella.

I have a good umbrella. Often, with storms, people curse their lack of foresight, and buy whatever cheap umbrella they can from a convenience store or open-air stand. But those sorts of umbrellas break after just a few uses. In downpours like this, they might not even last you the whole way home! This is the “in the moment” culture we perpetuate—without even thinking about it, people instinctually decide it’s easier to waste five hundred yen at a time on shoddily made umbrellas than it is to spend one afternoon researching brands to find one that will last them several years.

Well, I think preparedness is important—maybe even paramount. Thus, I have a very sturdy umbrella. Slate grey, patterned with black polka dots, it is one of the most reliable models you can buy.

My name is Mariko Kondo. I am thirty-four years old. Living in Tokyo, I’m what you call an Office Lady, or “OL.” Technically, I am an accountant—having gone to university for it—but I quickly learned, as a large subset of women do in this city, that whatever your degree, whatever your skillset, odds are you’ll always be an Office Lady first. This is what they call “societal expectations”; I’m to do my stated job and, in addition, whatever secretarial or clerical miscellany comes up—so-called “pink-collar work.” I’m expected to prepare tea for meetings and pour sake for the male employees during after-hours bar crawls—the former I couldn’t escape, but, as the years went on, I circumvented the latter by shunting all extracurricular work activities from my schedule.

I was never much for drinking or social engagements anyway. 

As all good women should be, I am married. My husband’s name is Naoki, he works in finance, and I believe him to be a good man. 

As all good women should, I have a child. His name is Haruki, he is seven years old, and he is my star.

As all good women shouldn’t, I remained in the work force after Haruki’s birth.

I hedge my way forward through the bustling crowd, focusing on my phone’s map. I struggle to console myself almost as much as I do against the rain. Labrys Books isn’t far from the station. It’s a small detour, won’t even take five minutes, and I’ll be back long before Ms. Sachigawa brings Haruki home for the day. 

It’s hardly an inconvenience at all. I should count my blessings.

Sometimes I feel guilty about that—returning to the work while Haruki was still so young—but I’m torn whether it’s my personal feeling or a phantom one inspired by society’s disapproval. I’m not sure why that would matter; a feeling is a feeling. I do know what most frustrates me is the patina of reproach that often glazes a co-worker’s expression, even at the mention of Haruki’s name, the passive reminder I have done something… not exactly wrong, but certainly unseemly. When I see that instinctual grimace on their face, like a tortured goblin mask that flutters there for just a second before their manners will it away, I hear a whole lecture spring up into the air, perfectly polite: “It’s all well and good to want a career, Kondo-san, but it’s not as if you’re in a position with upward mobility. You’re missing your son’s golden years so you can collate spreadsheets?”

I’ve generally considered my imagination far too wild.

But, consequently, I began avoiding mentions of Haruki to my colleagues. Well, though, I’m not sure it would matter either way. Thirty four is far past the retirement age for a married Office Lady, child or no. It’s simply a choice I’ve made.

Other than that I am not what you would call, in a word, “remarkable.”

The only time I have ever strived for anything was when I took the college entrance exams. I grew up in a small town, and when my mother passed away, I moved to an even smaller one, basically a hamlet, to stay with my grandparents. At the time, I believed country life to be a shackle, and university to be the mattock. So I dove into my studies at the exclusion of nearly all else, and my persistence was rewarded when I was accepted to Waseda University in Shinjuku, Tokyo. Receiving my acceptance, I was swept up in a tide of bliss; I’d done it. The promise of freedom was intoxicating.

But soon I discovered how quickly moves the pace of a city. I learned that my hours poring over books had done nothing for my social skills. The few friends I had in high school reduced to a small clutch of acquaintances in university. I told myself I didn’t mind. By that time, burying myself in work was more than easy; it was natural.

As a result, even in a metropolis of nearly forty million people, I know very few.

Sometimes, I think the rumbling of the subway beneath my feet is a warning, that soon the patient city will spring its trap, snap shut its massive jaws, and swallow me whole.I stand off to the side, partially sheltered beneath a gaudy yellow convenience store awning on the avenue where Labrys Books should be, and recheck my phone. I squint through the dreary morass of rain and people, hoping to catch sight of an obvious banner or sign. The little blue GPS dot paints it right here. Well, where is it then! Umbrella or not, I’m getting soaked!

A tendril of the rush hour crowd bulges from the main group. Shoulders and satchels jostle me in their hurry to reach the station and get out of the rain, and I stumble forward a step or two. I shoot a furrow of my brow at the foot traffic. No need to shove; I’d like to too, you know! 

But the offenders are already long gone. New, innocent faces replace the old, guilty ones in the surging sea of people, and the crowd marches on with brusque indifference.

A gust of wind spatters rain against my back and threatens to strip my umbrella out of my hands. Scrambling not to lose it, I turn away from the gale and duck onto a pedestrian side street clustered with small boutique shops. Like a beacon, three doors down, is the muted green awning of Labrys Books. With precipitous relief, I hasten inside.

The shop bell rings as I open the door; a whisper of warm air hurries over my face, as if escaping an unsealed tomb. I shake my umbrella free of rain and let the door close behind me, blinking my eyes as they adjust to the low light inside.

The air is tinged with the scent of cigarette smoke, but beneath that is the stale, delicate aroma of old books, something I always enjoyed, back in a time where there was time for such things as “hobbies.” As I close my umbrella and deposit it in the waiting bin next to me, I allow myself the indulgence of a long inhalation. It smells wonderful. It reminds me of another time. Not a better one, or a simpler one—my life is very simple, I think, though this hardly disappoints me—just a different one. 

The microscopic, impossibly crowded store is packed with tall wooden shelves, piled over with stock, that seem to stretch off into a forever distance, lined up like gills on a fish. I leave wet footprints on the worn hardwood as I step around the haphazard piles of books placed near the entrance toward the only clear floor space, in front of the wide, old-style wooden counter, just a few feet from the door.

Behind it, a youthful-looking clerk is reading a dog-eared paperback with one hand, splayed open between finger and thumb, while he smokes a premium cigarette with the other. He has short, black hair razored in a stylish cut, and is wearing a blue button-down shirt, open at the collar. Thick-rimmed black glasses sit on the bridge of his aquiline nose. He has a soft face, for a man. When he looks up at me, I startle, only then realizing I’ve been staring.

“Welcome,” she—she!—says, delivering the expected, requisite shop greeting, with an unexpected, almost phlegmatic, lack of care. 

Her voice is low, but only for a woman. She gazes at me coolly. It only lasts a nanosecond, but a baseball-sized lump catches in my throat. On reflex I offer a hasty half-bow, as if she were somehow aware of my misapprehension. 

Thankfully, she spares me further embarrassment by returning to her book. My impromptu, unnecessary apology goes completely unnoticed.

I shuffle forward when she offers me no further attention. 

“Ah,” I say. “Excuse me, I’m here to pick up an order.”

She reaches beside her, to rest her cigarette in the chipped and overfull plastic ashtray on the counter. Then she takes a business card from a pile of them next to the computer, places it to mark her page, and leaves the book on the counter. Its title, in English, reads Oranges are not the Only Fruit.

“Name?” she asks.

She has a small beauty mark just above her lip. As a man, I would’ve thought her around twenty. As I woman, I suspect she is closer to my age. She has a succinct way of moving; efficient, but unhurried.

“It’s Kondo, Mariko Kondo,” I reply. “But I’m picking up for my boss, Hiroshi Yoshida. He called ahead.”

She turns to her computer monitor. The mouse wheel responds with a creaking complaint as she flicks her finger over it. Then she bends down, nearly placing her ear against the counter as she rustles around beneath it.

I find myself glancing at the book on the counter while I wait. On its cover is a highly stylized drawing of a nude woman with tousled black hair. A long green snake winds around her breasts. The woman seems unconcerned. Quite the opposite, her hands embrace the snake in a loose, reciprocating hold. Arched behind her back, it seems poised to whisper some dark secret into her ear. There is the slightest curve to her lips. She has a Mona Lisa smile. Her eyes stare forward at me; they are somewhat dispassionate.

The clerk deposits a heavy, paper-wrapped book onto the counter with a thump. “Have you read it?” 

“Ah?” The sound startles me from my trance. I blink back up at her, shaking my head. “No, I haven’t…”

“You should.” A perfunctory nod as she turns to her computer. Her short fingernails tap leisurely across the keyboard, and I think she’s done speaking until she says, “Though I’m not sure if there’s a Japanese translation.”

“Actually, I read English quite well.”

I flinch inwardly. Ordinarily I’d never say such an impertinent thing.

But it was true! In fact, I’d started my university career studying English Romantic poets, of whom my favorites were Shelley and Keats—distressingly common choices, I know—though my favorite poem, in English, is actually The Wasteland, by T.S. Eliot. 

There is shadow under this red rock,  
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),  
And I will show you something different from either  
Your shadow at morning striding behind you  
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;  
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

In the dark of my room, late at night, it was as if there were an ethereal presence around me. I remember softly weeping, but not knowing why.

Of course, the clerk asks none of this, nor does she comment on my rude retort. Instead, she flashes me a canny smile, asking, “Is that so?” 

Her direct tone and her low, deliberate voice, have a way of making the question sound like a statement. She places the paper-wrapped book into a plastic bag and ties it off with a sharp knot. I do not respond further, unsure if this is an exchange I’m expected to continue. 

That sort of conversational nuance has always eluded me. Back in university, as it turned out, I was unsuited for a Fine Arts degree. I enjoyed the material, but found the obligatory class participation rather difficult. So, at the end of my second term I switched my focus to Accounting, a more sensible choice, ultimately. 

When I told my grandparents about my change of major, my grandmother was relieved. But I caught a fleeting look of disappointment on my grandfather’s face, his expression creasing around his cloudy hazel eyes like the subtlest frown. In some part it was sadness, but tinged with gentle aura of regret—though he never made mention of his thoughts on the matter…

“Already paid for.” The clerk presses the return key and the computer responds in an electronic chirps. “Need to take your information down, in case there’s any problems.” She nudges a pad of receipt paper in front of her and begins to write. “The kanji in your first name, written like that idol singer? The one that died?”

I blanch at her forwardness. “Written as ‘white jasmine.’”

“That’s a rare spelling,” she says, scribbling out the first character of my name in lazy swoops.

She’s gotten the stroke order wrong.

“No, that’s—”

She looks up at me through the fringe of her hair, slim eyebrows raised in drowsy inquiry.

I avert my eyes with the excuse of checking the time. There’s a large clock—cheap plastic make, with analog hands—tacked to one of the bookshelves behind the counter. It’s nearly 5:30 already.

“I’m terribly sorry, I’m running late. May I show you my ID?”

“That’s fine,” she says.

I swivel my purse in front of me to retrieve my wallet. To my chagrin, however, I realize I’ve become a sitcom character, whose purse is overstuffed with useless knickknacks she’s been meaning to clear out for weeks. I grope my way through not one, not two, but three packages of complimentary promotional tissues—aggressive shop employees will literally thrust them into your hands on the street; I’ve always been too self-conscious to decline—still my wallet is nowhere in sight, lost inside my suddenly cavernous purse. Feeling the clerk’s eyes upon me, I mumble out a hurried apology, distracted, as I catch a silver gleam from the depths. Ah ha! Victory!As she writes out the cost and title of the book on the receipt, I lift the small, silver case from my purse and open it. With my thumb, I slip out one of my business cards and stow the case back in my purse. 

It took me weeks to decide on the exact shade of cream color, the perfect card stock, the exquisite lettering. All that work, and… I hadn’t exchanged cards with anyone in years. There was no reason for me to. I rarely attended work gatherings, and my time meeting new colleagues was largely spent serving them tea.

I hold the card at its corners, between thumb and forefinger on either side. I bend forward at the waist, and offer my card in the practiced, professional manner, moving to place it in the plastic tray by the register, which is meant for the transfer of change and other such items between the costumer and the store’s employee.

My formality is not reciprocated. Before I can set it down, she pauses writing up the receipt and plucks my card away as casually as she retrieves her cigarette from the ashtray with her other hand. She takes a drag, scanning her eyes across the text. 

“Mariko Kondo-san…” she murmurs, through a lazy exhalation of smoke. 

A strange pressure squeezes my chest at the sound of my name running across her tongue. I take a swift breath through my nose.

“This is your business address?” With a squeak of pen, she defiles the surface of the card in permanent marker, circling my address, then my phone number. “Current number?”

“Y-yes, that’s right.”

She copies the characters of my name onto the receipt without another word. I busy myself scanning the nearby shelves for titles I recognize, scrawling my eyes over the cluster blue, green, and red covers of anthologies and old novels, trying to ram some sense back into my head. Just behind her, at eye level, there’s a collection of post-war novels, carelessly stacked in a triangular heap. I recognize The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, and a flicker of potent nostalgia passes through me, even though I’ve never read it.

The clerk strips my copy of the receipt from the pad with a sharp tear. “Then I’ll call if I have any questions. Thank you for your patronage.”

“Yes, thank you.” I stammer as I throw out a final, slight bow. Picking up the plastic bag, I turn to go.

I’m stopped dead in my tracks before I’ve taken half a step. A cool touch washes over my skin…

Her fingers are wrapped around my wrist. 

My muscles yank to attention. I can almost feel the pulse of her thumb beating against my veins. Neck tight, the process of turning around is laborious. The leaping of my heart has left a rigid lump in my throat that proves difficult for mere movement to overcome. I turn back, her placid eyes seemingly waiting for mine to meet them. 

I am captured by the casual, patient indifference of her face. Time is slower than anything. She blinks once, then twice. The ticking of the clock echoes endlessly inside my ears and, vaguely, from somewhere else, I hear the patter of the rain.

I shiver. 

“The receipt,” she says, indicating with her eyes the scrap of paper resting on the counter, near the plastic tray she should have used to offer it to me. 

As quickly as they came, her fingers release my wrist.

“I’m very sorry!” I blurt out, snatching the receipt and cramming it into my jacket pocket before offering a jerky bow of apology. “Thank you for your kindness today, I’ll be going now!” My heels clop against the hardwood as I nearly twist my ankle in the haste of my escape. Ears on fire, I hurl myself back out into the torrential rain…

…sans umbrella.

It’s half a block before I come to my senses, walking so quickly it was almost like running. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I look up into the great, gloomy skies above. The storm clouds seem to crackle, alive with potent energy. The thinning crowd passes around me without complaint, like a swarm of ants navigating past an inconvenient pebble. Solitary in this moment, fingers curl around wrist and squeeze down hard against my veins, as if I could replicate the odd voltage of her touch. 

Sometimes, I think being eaten would be preferable. With a clench and a jerk, I would find myself swallowed, too sudden to know, and everything would blot out, and the world would become black.

Closing my eyes, I indulge in the warm summer rain pattering down upon my face. Exposed to everything, the downpour soaking my hair, my clothes, and my body all the way through, I start to laugh.

***

Though the train is packed, every eye is focused on me and my soaked grey suit—in a facially polite way, of course. Throughout the hour-long train ride, they only look when they believe I won’t notice. To assist them in their endeavor, I stare out the window. The tall buildings rush by in a blur, like they were fleeing something dreadful. Working my fingers against the heavy parcel, I struggle to ignore how audibly each drip of water impacts the floor. 

I am emphatically aware of my ruined makeup.

Sometimes, I think the beast is the people, who stare at you, but don’t, who wonder about you, but don’t, who offer comfort, but don’t.

My apartment is a short walk from the station. I take it as briskly as I can. I am very late.

It’s a small home for a family, but such are these economic times. I’m happy enough to have two rooms, now that Haruki’s old enough to have his own. 

Thankfully, I return home before the arrival of Ms. Sachigawa, our elderly neighbor and Haruki’s after-school caretaker. I remove my shoes and retrieve my phone from my purse, finally able to check it now that I’m out of the rain. I have a text from Naoki

July 2th, 6:23 PM

Later night than usual.

Late nights at the office, and after-hours drinks on top of that, are expected of any salary man. But when I receive these texts, always with that exact wording, they suggest at something different, almost like a cipher in a thriller movie—albeit one with a hackneyed, overused plot twist. 

It’s strange, how these “later-than-usual” nights always seem to fall on Tuesdays….

To be honest, I’m not sure if his indiscretions ever actually bothered me or if that was another case of societal expectations. For a time, because I assumed they should bother me, I allowed that feeling to fester in my stomach like a foreign virus. Either way, I got over it rather quickly. It became just another thing, something that exists, like anything else, and he’s never been anything but discreet. I respect that; that’s my feelings on the matter.

Still, I sigh.

I take off my shoes, hang up my purse, and place my phone on the kitchen counter. I start the rice cooker for dinner. Scanning the kitchenette and thinking about what to make, for some reason my eyes fall upon the bottle of merlot tucked away in one of the cabinets above the sink. Its long green neck and red seal are the only things visible behind the hodgepodge rows of miscellany. I stare at it, for a while, until the uneasy shrug of my shoulders against the sodden weight of my clothes gets me moving again.

I’m only halfway to the bathroom before the doorbell rings. I wipe my face with a hand towel from the kitchen and make a futile attempt at collecting my bedraggled hair.

“Mommy, mommy!” Haruki sprints through the door as soon as it’s open a crack and hugs his arms around my legs, barreling into me hard enough that I stumble backwards a step. “Look what I got!” 

As I struggle to greet Ms. Sachigawa, Haruki confronts me with a handful of explosively colored playing cards from his favorite anime. 

“You shouldn’t have,” I say, giving her an abashed smile. “He has so many already.”

Ms. Sachigawa rebukes me with a wave of her hand. “Ah, it’s best to spoil them while you still can. They’re only young once!” 

Only a bit shorter than me, Ms. Sachigawa has a wizened, happy face and her coarse hair, done up in a simple bun, has lost most of its color. She’s rather advanced in years, but her thin, papery voice belies her energy. 

She tut-tuts her tongue against her teeth as she glances me up and down. “What’s the matter, Mari-chan? Didn’t you check the weather forecast this morning?”

She is, sometimes, regretfully perceptive. What’s more fascinating is that she has no compunctions about letting you know it. This is the freedom of the elderly, I suppose. I don’t begrudge her that; if anything, I envy it.

“No, I did…” Again, I’m forced to bear the damp weight of my clothing like a guilty verdict. “Somehow, I managed to… forget my umbrella at work—ah! Haruki, your shoes!”

Haruki stops blessedly short of tromping all over the carpet. He unceremoniously flops down onto the floor and begins undoing his laces.

“Well it’s clear which parent he takes after!” she says, cackling with overt affection. “Go change. I’ll stay with him for a few more minutes.”

“Thank you,” I say. Before I go, grip Haruki by his hair and ruffle him firmly. “Did you thank Sachigawa-san for her gift?”

“Thank you!” Haruki screeches.

“You’re quite welcome!” Ms. Sachigawa trills back with blustery grandiosity, beckoning him to her so I may escape to the bathroom.

As far as I know, Ms. Sachigawa has never been married or had children. I believe she derives a great deal of pleasure caring for Haruki a few hours a day—though I would never say that out loud, for fear of belittling her generosity. 

I towel off my hair and pull it back with a tie, clean my face, hang my wet clothes over the tub, and change into some loose grey slacks and a soft black sweater. I rush, it only takes me a few minutes, but when I return, Haruki has already dragged Ms. Sachigawa to the couch and sat her down. With a scholarly air, he expounds on the impressive scope of his collection of trading cards and their individual purposes.

“Haruki, that’s enough,” I say, with affection. Touching his shoulders, I guide him to sit on the floor with his cards so Ms. Sachigawa has room to stand up. “Thank you so much,” I say. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“For what?” she asks, nonchalantly taking my wrist and using my support to drag herself up from the couch with a depleted groan. I open the door for her. Exiting the apartment, she pauses in her somehow spritely shuffle to glance behind me, towards the short, dark hallway to the bedroom. “Will Naoki-san make it home for dinner?”

“It’s Tuesday,” I say.

Her eyebrows twist with quiet insight. Her fingers fold around my forearm. “It’s difficult, isn’t it?”

“No, I…” Feeling flush, I look away for a moment to compose my thoughts.

I’m surprised the question causes me to hesitate. As I said, I’ve long since resolved my feelings on the matter. I don’t mind. In fact, I think it’s good. He should have someone who can tend to those needs as he deserves.

I’ve just never had the opportunity to say these ideas aloud before.

Thankfully, whatever treacherous desire I have to compose these thoughts into words is interrupted by Haruki’s intrusion into the conversation. 

“He’ll be home before bedtime, won’t he?” he moans, fanning his new cards across the table. “I wanted to show him these…”

Though it does concern me, if this might affect Haruki in some way. 

But then, it’s the way of things. Couldn’t he say the same about my decision to continue working?

“Well, you can show them to me,” I offer.

“It’s not the same,” he says. “You’re a girl.”

“But so is Sachigawa-san.”

“Well,” he says, categorically distracted, running his fingers over the glossy pictures and exploring the corners of the cardboard. “It’s a bit different, with her.” 

I turn back to Ms. Sachigawa when her hand squeezes around my upper arm. “They’re like that at this age,” she whispers. The creases around her eyes look a bit deeper, in the bleak hallway lighting. “Why don’t I stay a few hours, we’ll whip up some dinner?”

“You’ve done so much already; please, go rest.”

“I suppose, I suppose.” She purses her lips one way, then the other, looking equally as if she were considering some essential truth as she were sucking on a hard candy. “Well, you’ll make it through. We always do.” The wrinkles of her face soften as her smile returns. She wags a finger. “Try to be a bit less forgetful, though. You’re not a young mother anymore, he’ll pick up on these things!”

“I will,” I say, thanking her again with a bow, and her hoarse cackling continues down the hallway even after I shut the door.

Sometimes, I think human beings are a solitary creature. Like giant herbivores—a dinosaur, say—their strength and size mean they’ve no need to band into packs to fend off predators. And so, they come together only rarely, when fate leads them to graze from the same tree.

“Haruki,” I say. “That was a rude thing you said, and in front of Sachigawa-san too.”

Without further prompting, Haruki stands and wanders towards me, hugging his arms around my legs and resting his head against my belly. 

When not distracted, Haruki is actually a very emotionally intuitive child. I’ve always been proud of him for that. It seems like, often, we’re trained to respond to how we believe people should be feeling, instead of how they actually are. I hope he never loses this knack.

After a brief hug, I scoop under his shoulders—surprise attack!—and yank him off his feet. Placing my nose against his small one, I affect a very stern expression. “Sorry, are you?” I growl. He writhes in my arms, kicking his feet into the air and clipping his toes against my legs.

“Fighting back, eh? We’ll just see about that.” 

But then, I am still. With mock gravity, I fix his face with a stolid expression. Looking into my eyes, rapt, he has no idea of my intent until I begin to wriggle my fingers at his sides.

“Stop, stop!” he begs, exploding into giggles, screeching, and flailing his arms and legs.

I grin and give no quarter, continuing my assault all the way to his armpits. “Have you learned your lesson?” 

“Yes! Ha-ha-ve muh-muhr-cy!”

All at once I stop, pulling him into a deep hug.

“Ah~” he complains against my ear.

Perhaps I did squeeze a bit hard, but isn’t that a mother’s right? I set Haruki down. He looks perturbed, though he still returns to hug me around my legs. Rubbing his face against my sweater, he asks, “Why do you always pick me up so much? It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s only because…” I pause, sorting my fingers through his short hair. Because… Because… “Because you’re getting so big, and soon I won’t be able to anymore.”

He seems to mull on this, just for a bit, before he softly says, “Then I guess it’s okay.” His nose presses into my stomach. “I’m sorry for what I said, I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t, you’re a good boy.” I transfer my hands to a loose hold against his shoulders, and start to rock him gently. “But your mom can be cool too, you know. She used to read manga.”

Haruki blinks up at me. Brewing excitement seizes his voice. “Like Naruto?” 

“Well, no,” I say. “When I was young, I read manga for girls.”

“For girls? Sounds boring.”

His adroit response pulls a sharp laugh out of me. “They usually were!” …but the sound trails off into a soft hum as my mind traces through some wispy memory. “But I still liked them…” As I run my hand up and down his back, and hold him close, Haruki’s stomach emits a growl. I kneel to him, eye to eye, and hold his face. “Now, how about you tell me all about your new cards while I make us dinner?”

I prepare a small, simple meal—miso soup and donburi, from last night’s leftover chicken. As I cook, and then we eat, I reply with wonder and amazement while Haruki describes his cards, and the accordant anime battles they represent.

But inside, I wonder about the depth of passion these shows exhibit. Always some climactic battle, always someone to save, someone to defeat, someone to love. I think back on the manga I used to read—flamboyant, pretentious, girly titles like The Rose of Versailles. I admired Lady Oscar’s passion, and the verve with which she expressed her emotions. Often entire pages would be devoted to her wrenching grief, hand clutching breast, tears streaming down her cheeks, sparkling like starlight. I remember… wondering if I would ever feel that way for anyone, for anything.

Sometimes, I think the beast is this mythology. Myths are like lies, but kind ones; they tell you what ought to be true but isn’t—they tell you there are so many things in life worth striving for that you couldn’t hold them all, not even with both hands. They tell you there is so much worth fighting for you’ll never have the time to feel tired, or bored, or that your life had no meaning. They tell you, with complete sincerity, that passion is an ever-present fuel to stoke the roaring bonfire of your heart…

I smile at Haruki all through dinner, and he continues regaling me with the story of his anime even as I’m ushering him to his bath. I’m amazed at how so much there is to say on the matter, let alone at his ability to synthesize it. I wonder if we should’ve scrimped more so we could’ve looked into private schools with more challenging curriculums. He’s very intelligent for his age. If he becomes bored, he might not commit to his studies. It’s not like when I was young, and high school was the only thing that really mattered. Now… 

Sometimes, I think passion is more like sparks from an anvil: burning bright enough to blind you, and instantly gone. You’d almost call this a generous act, the lie that fiction tells—or perhaps a palliative one—a bit of hope and comfort in the face of a grinding, difficult world. But, in a sense, it hardly matters.

I will away such thoughts so I can enjoy the rest of our evening together, reading to him, tucking him into bed. I stay with him for a while, even after he’s asleep, my knees bent to fit myself beside him on the small futon, looking up into the darkness of the ceiling, tracing the patterns of the outside lights filtering in through the venetian blinds, and listening to the measured sound of his breathing.

I go back out to clean up the remnants of dinner. As I’m aggressively scrubbing a pan, hands forearm-deep in thick, purple latex gloves, I pause to wipe the building sweat from my forehead. Looking up, right in front of me is that bottle of merlot, secreted away in its cabinet… 

It’s heavy, even holding it in both hands. And the cork pops loose with a satisfying chunk! as I twist the opener in and use all my strength to pull it free.

***

I dream of Rie.

It was so many years ago I’d almost forgotten. It’s funny how easily memories fade, when you stalwartly refuse to cling to them.

“You should read it!” she exhorts, wagging her father’s aged paperback copy of The Temple of The Golden Pavilion by Yukio Mishima towards me. “It’s truly excellent!”

“Dude, it’s booooooring.” I used to like saying Dude! back then, ejaculating it at the beginning of sentences like a crude oath. I think I thought it was funny, adopting this roguish, juvenile way of speaking. “Some old guy who died before we were even born. Plus, he’s so weird! All those pictures of him in a loincloth, waving a sword around. What’s a guy like that got to stay that could possibly relate to us?”

“Plenty of stuff!” The book’s cover is cracked like dry earth, its spine acutely creased, and the bent corners of its pages seemed ready to flake away as she shook it at me. “It’s about beauty, cruelty, isolation. Some people call him the most intelligent writer of his time, you know.”

Sometimes Rie could be a real drag! With black hair almost to her waist, flawless skin, and always-perfect makeup, Rie had not just looks, but style and fashion so impeccable she made it look effortless. She’d coast through life as a glamor model or a pop idol—if we weren’t trapped in this podunk country town, that is. So why’d she always go and pressure you with this book stuff? It was so nerdy!

“If he was so smart,” I ask, “why’d he kill himself?”

This brings a strange look to Rie’s face. She frowns. 

For an unknown reason, I ready myself to apologize. But before I can even open my mouth, Rie’s frown evaporates in a flash. She lunges, shoving me at the shoulder. 

“I’m just trying to educate you, you know!” She grins, wild woman, and snatches for the comic I’m reading. “Get you some culture! Something, anything, besides manga for once!”

I laugh, rolling away from her assault and sprawling out on the floor. Holding my comic at arms length in the air, I riffle the pages, watching the stylized black and white faces and abstract starscapes fly by. Hyperbolic giggles overtake me. “We spend our whole day buried in lessons at school, and now you want me to stick my nose in some old book of my own free will? No thanks!”

“You’re reading manga right now!”

“Manga has pictures,” I retort with a grin. “No. Reading. Required.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“You’re stuck with me,” I say.

“Then I guess I’m hopeless too.”

We smile, and we sigh.

She sits at her table, and I against her bookshelf, and we read our separate things, somehow together, even doing things apart. The afternoon whiles away without our asking, and soon, orange beams of sunset sneak through the blinds. I watch the ceiling fan cut lazily through the invisible air. The late-August heat is like a glove, and you can hear the summer wind outside wafting carelessly through the reeds. I close my eyes, and focus on the breeze that tickles over my face for a while.

Looking over, I notice Rie’s long, lavish hair has been suddenly cut short. It’s fetching on her—though, I’ll amend, almost any hairstyle would be—but I’m surprised. She’d always teased me about my own hair, which I’d kept short at the time, though in a remarkably less trendy cut than her current one. 

Noticing my attention, she turns to me, her thick-rimmed reading glasses slipping down to the point of her nose. “I’ll tell you one thing these old books have over your comics.”

I blink, tilting my head and itching at my ear. “Eh?”

Did Rie ever wear glasses?

“The smell.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What are you talking about? Be serious.”

“I am,” she says, turning from her seat at the table and sidling over to me. “You’ve never smelled one?”

“Of course not!”

She places a hand on the floor, closing the rest of the distance between us by leaning forward, almost in a crawl. She lifts the book. I bat it away.

“Stop it!” I snicker, feeling flush, almost giddy. “You’re being so strange.”

“Here,” she says, again lifting the book to my face. Tipping the cover towards me, she spreads the pages wide, and the book’s releases a tender groan of inanimate effort. “Smell.”

I glance at the new beauty mark, poised just above her lip.

The rosiness grows in my cheeks. I lean forward, my eyes locked to hers. She observes me as I dip all the way down, until my nose graces over the spine, and nudges against the crisp, fragile pages. I close my eyes and breathe in. 

The smell is hard to describe. Redolent of candlelight, or mountain peaks, rose hips in fresh water, and careful, peaceful scents, like potpourri. 

…and cigarettes on rainy days…

In another way it is, simply, the smell of old books. 

My eyelashes flutter when Rie reaches out to tuck the loose strands of my hair behind one of my ears. Having sorted me, she cups her palm against my jaw. I follow her guidance, sitting up, but hunching forward with painful care, worried that any particular motion, even into her, might shake loose her tenuous hold. 

“It’s good, huh?” she asks.

Dazed, I nod. 

“Sometimes,” she says, “when I drink in that smell, I feel like I could disappear from the world.”

My lip tucks between my teeth.

Her fingers slink along my jaw… “Mariko, you’re really going? To Tokyo?”

“I have to,” I whisper.

…then up… “I don’t live there, in Tokyo.”

“I know.”

…taking my ear… “I won’t ever live there.”

“I know.”

…she brings me to her… “I might not ever live anywhere.”

“Why?” I ask.

Drawing me closer and closer, soon she’s brought our faces to perfect symmetry. Our noses quash each other, and our lips are perilous in their proximity. A giggle forms inside me. Trapped beneath the surface tension of my stomach, its captivity radiates pressure throughout my core. The book snaps shut with a clap of finality. Her lips part, brushing against mine with the careless whisper of soft flesh as she says…

***

The sound of gunfire wakes me with a start. My body goes so rigid I nearly slide off of the couch, and it’s a few seconds of confused flailing before I realize that we are not actually being invaded by aliens, it’s just the TV. I click it off with the remote and glance at the clock.

It’s after midnight. If Naoki had come home, I’m sure he would’ve woken me up, or at least shut the TV off, but still I glance towards the door to see if his shoes are there. 

They’re not.

I drag myself off the couch and pick up the wine glass on the end table, still half full from my second pour—I could never handle two drinks. 

I bring it to the kitchenette. The track lighting in the living room casts deep shadows along the cabinets and down into the depths of the sink. I upturn the wineglass, watching in sleepy stupor as the murky red liquid gurgles its way down the drain. My tongue rolls against the roof of my mouth, dry. Let’s have a glass of water before bed, and maybe take something to soothe the possible hangover. 

All that remains of the wine is the last few dregs, slinking towards the drain. A slick coating paints the bottom of the sink with a dull sheen.

I reach down, pressing the pad of my index finger into the sink. It squeaks against the metal. In the low light, the wine looks almost black. 

I squint, rubbing the side of my face with the palm of my hand, and flicking my hair back into place. I wonder if I’m still dreaming. 

With a sigh, I start the tap and spray the sink clean.

I can’t quite bring to mind what my dream was about. It seemed like a nice one, if a bit melancholy at the fringes—then again, what in life isn’t these days? 

I feel somewhat numb. My arms are unwieldy, as if they’d recently belonged to someone else and I was still learning their movements. 

I feel somewhat satiated. A funny warmth rests somewhere in the bottom of my belly. Heavy, but pleasing, it’s like holding your hands near a hearth-heated stone in wintertime. 

It is, I think, the alcohol talking.

The living room clock ticks in the silence. It’s nearly half past. 

I pass through the living room, heading for the bathroom, unbuttoning my shirt as I do. In my exhaustion, I stub my toe on one of Haruki’s carelessly strewn toys. Almost tripping over it, and my own feet, I mutter out a swear and slap a hand against the wall for balance. 

Looking down I spot not a stray toy, but the bag from the Labrys. In my frustration, I almost level a sharp kick at it. 

Instead, I crouch. Tugging loose the knot on the plastic bag, I retrieve the book. Tied around its paper wrapping is a pleasing red and white thread. I turn the parcel end over end. It’s not particularly large, which makes it weight all the more surprising. Taking the book in both hands, I heft it appraisingly. Could it be a tome? Would that mean Mr. Yoshida’s wife is secretly a witch? Fascinating.

I lift the book. The wrapping paper is soft against my nose; ticklish, even. A carefree smile passes my lips. Tension slinks away from me. I inhale. 

It smells like candlelight and rose hips, potpourri and mountaintops I’ve never seen, and cigarettes. Closing my eyes, I feel the touch of fingers upon my wrist. I sense the rove of impassive eyes. My insides clench, just below the stomach.

I lean my back against the wall so I can slide from crouching to sitting. My legs unfurl, touching the wall on the other side of the narrow hallway. For a while, I hug the book to my chest—though not for any specific reason, only because it’s rather heavy, and this is the most comfortable way to hold it. Eventually, I decide I should put it back inside its bag. 

I feel better, once I put it away; or I do until I touch my hands to my cheeks and realized how heated my face has become. I try to think of a reason why I just smelled an old book in the dark.

I place a hand against the curve of my stomach.

I feel… somewhat urgent.

It is, I think, the alcohol talking.

I stand, shaking out my head to clear the cobwebs. I curl my toes against the carpet and take a breath to steady myself. 

I click off the living room lights and use the somber orange beacon of the bathroom nightlight to guide me down the hall.

I brush my hair. I remove my sweater and my slacks. I wash my face. I avoid looking at the mirror too much, and when I do try not to focus on bags beneath my eyes, even more evident this late at night, beneath the pale glow of the fluorescents. I try not to think about what she thought of me, when she noticed them—if she noticed them.

She?

Something stirs around inside me. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. 

As I’m replacing my toothbrush my hand slips, inadvertently knocking Naoki’s electric razor from its charging cradle. It tumbles into the sink, turning on from the impact. A sharp mechanical whine sound fills the small bathroom as it clatters around like a ferocious little animal.

I reach for it. My fingers grace against the button, and the sleek metal shape transmits its petulant rattling into my bones…

I turn it off and rub at my eyes with the side of my hand. I’m tired. I haven’t stayed up this late in years.

As I lift the razor to place it back in its cradle, I flex my palm into it. My fingers tingle with the memory of its vibration. That pressure builds inside me once again, a clenching somewhere between my stomach and my hips. It’s become petulant. My thumb rocks against the power button, not intending to do anything….

I flick the switch and the razor once more begins to buzz—alive, powerful, like it’s trying to wriggle free of my grip. So I clench down on it, like I clench my insides against the fire these firm vibrations seem to have stoked.

I’ll just touch it against my neck; only because I’m curious.

It is angry, buzzing so hard it’s as if it aims to tear itself apart. But, touching the side of it to my neck, I give a comforted sigh. That does feel nice.

I look at myself in the mirror. My hair has slipped over my shoulders, my face is red, and… I’m smiling. I look like a totally different person. 

I look excited. 

I take the razor from my neck, cossetting it in my palm and considering it like a foreign artifact, something to be scrutinized dispassionately, objectively.

The cap is still on. It’s surely safe.

Safe? What do I care about safe?

Nervous, I’m only brave enough to press it against my leg. But even that distant proximity stirs my hungry core all the more. Then, I only intend to cross the front of my leg with it. Once that’s done, I discover how pressing it against the inside of my leg curls my toes against the cool tile. I work the sleek razor against the subtle plushness of my thighs, now regretting the extra calories of meat for dinner, but at the same time, I cherish in the squirmy feeling of my flesh relenting beneath the aggressive, continual bursts of speed and sound. I look down my body, marveling at this thing, shivering in the darkness.

From there, it’s a simple step—or at least I make it so. 

The jump of the razor against my sex is almost painful. I jerk it away. 

My hand is shaking almost as badly as the razor. I look at myself in the mirror. I decide to turn it off, put it away, and forget this whole affair. I decide…

…that it wasn’t so much painful as it was surprising. I wasn’t ready for it, that’s all.

I spread my legs apart cautiously, putting myself in a wide stance so there’s enough space to, very gently, grace the side of the razor against the crux of my thighs without touching anything too sensitive. 

Imagine my surprise, then, when the briefest tingle against that spot makes me suck in breath like a wheeze. My insides roil. The clenching sinks deeper, down all the way to my hips. My body shakes with anticipation. I edge the razor inwards…

Only the thin barrier of my panties cushions me from the seeking pulse of the device. I groan. Lofted by my swelling breath, my breasts riot against the constriction of my bra. My nipples spring erect, oversensitive like a fresh welt. My thighs clench around the razor, and I breathe out sharply. Cords of muscles tighten in my neck. Equilibrium goes off-kilter. I slap my other hand down on the sink for balance.

When I shut my eyes, I see her—long nose and canny eyes, thin lips and small beauty mark. My heart strums. My face grows hotter, all the way to my ears. It’s as if someone’s wrapped a warm towel around it.

As my thighs go numb from the stimulation, my sex feels not just alive, but on fire, bristling and awake, dangerous and hungry.

I picture the nonchalant way she gripped me on the hand, lithe fingers in a loose embrace, fingertips soft as feathers tracing over my skin. She doesn’t smile; how I wish she would. 

I open my eyes—I force them open—I have to stop thinking about her.

I focus on the electric whine of the razor, echoing off the tiled walls. 

Head bowed, when I glance up at myself in the mirror, all I see is the curtain of my hair. The razor fluxes against me, and I stifle my urge to cry out by biting against the inside of my lip. My body is booming. I wish I could plunge it into me, adhere it somewhere deep, deep inside, and let it revel around my core. My arm aches all the way up to my shoulder from gripping the sink so hard. My knees begin to shake from the effort of keeping myself standing. My sex begs them to give out, knowing if I collapse, it will be free from this percussive, unrelenting force.

But where would that leave me?

A ripple crosses my brow, the warning before I explode in sweat. I can’t breathe, except by panting. First, it’s only one, and I swallow hard to stymie the rest—but that traps them only for the next few breaths. My cheeks bulge out like a zealous chipmunk’s. Aching fingers scramble against the device, searching for a way to increase the speed. I’m leaning over a precipice, poised to plunge, but a headwind presses against me, refusing to let me drop no matter how hard I thrash. My eyes screw shut, and the image of her fires back into my mind, looking at me with those insouciant eyes, unflappable and calm, ready to attend me.

“Please!” I gasp, hoarse through my ragged breathing.

Pressure on my wrist instructs my hand, real as if she were doing it herself. I glide the sleek metal shape flatwise against myself. The oscillating waves radiate out against the hidden line of my sex and into my body. An icy shiver ripples up my spine. My insides clamp down hard enough to strangle a gulp of air from me. My suffering sex cries out in revolt beneath the forcible throb, wordlessly begging for release from this unyielding torment, pleading to soar. 

I throw my head all the way back, my hair spills away from my face, and I cry out a moan that seems to extend out through the entirety of my inconsequential life.

Or it would, if my treacherous knees didn’t give out, sending me tumbling to the floor. The razor slips from my grip, buzzing raucously as it leaps across the tiles like a puppy on a lark and clattering to a stop against the bathtub. I use the last of my strength to lunge for it, get it in my hands. My cheek slaps against it as I sprawl out on the ground. 

I wallow in it for a while, stroking my face up and down the smooth surface and enjoying how it rumbles against my stupefied brain, flexing my sore muscles like a sleepy cat. I am as loose as a hammock in the wind. I am an apple swaying delicately on a tree branch, not really caring when, or if, it falls, trapped up in a peaceful moment, and content.

I blink back to my senses when I notice the slickness between my skin and the razor. I touch my face, wondering at the small sticky spot on my cheek. I don’t have to wonder long; an incisive throb from my slowly calming sex provides ample indication of its source.

Tentatively, I reach my hand down, sneaking it between my folded thighs and exploring the simple cotton expanse of my panties. I find myself worryingly… damp. Mortified, I let out a pressurized hiss .

I shut off the razor and clamp down on my breathing, worried about… about… about… about a million things, I suppose!

The apartment is quiet. Not a creature is stirring.

…except for Mariko, but she’s trying her best to be still…

It’s only proving somewhat difficult, at the moment.

I drift my fingers, marveling at the slickness, and the pulse of heat, like a forge, that radiates from my sex even as my breathing slows and my body returns to its natural, normal state. Badly, I want to dip my fingers beneath the band of my underwear, crawl my nails through the tangled mess of my pubic hair, and explore this sensation face to face—or skin to skin, as the case may be. But… but…

Instead, I luxuriate in the intractable barrier of my panties, rolling against myself, and relishing how even the slightest pressure is made magnificent by my newfound sensitivity. I would never say I was “drenched,” not ever, but… I marvel at my slickness, which is all the more glorious in its novelty. 

It’s not that I’ve never enjoyed… the act. And it’s certainly not as if I thought I’d never had an orgasm—I just suspected the concept of an “orgasm,” was less… superlative than literature and certain fashion magazines would have you believe. I also assumed that, as with most things, I possessed a more mundane capacity than most. The thought never really bothered me…

I explore, tenderly walking the borders of my touch around my smoldering exterior, not trying to cajole any further explosions of pleasure, merely floating in the memory of those recently passed, already hazy, but somehow more satisfying with distance. Emboldened, I go so far as to extract those fingers, to paint them along my face, just beneath my nose.

The smell is dizzyingly frank.

I roll onto my back and stretch my legs as far as they’ll go in a bathroom so small it can’t even hold the extended length of someone short as me. My feet against the door, my knees bend crookedly in, and immediately start to burn. I tell myself it’s just like morning exercises, just the lactic acid building up, and the thought makes me snicker through my nose. The ceiling pulses in my vision like the breathing of a great, cosmic presence, ready to gobble me up. I laugh in its face. I don’t care. My folly floats in the air like dandelion fluff. My skin is tight, like armor. I am unstoppable.

Without care, or even need for thought, my hand slips back between my legs. When I press against myself, sometimes my nipples fire with a powered beat. Sometimes I release a petulant sound, a cross between a gasp and a whine. Sometimes my eyes cringe shut, and I see… I see…

Her.

That’s enough now, it’s late. 

I stand on shaky legs, wash down the razor with a hand towel and replace it in its cradle. Turning to go, I catch an image in the mirror.

It’s an unfamiliar woman who watches me from the other side of the glass. I touch my face, and this distant woman touches hers in turn. I run fingers over my cheeks, and against my lips, and examine her every motion as she does the same. I marvel at this strange woman. Even with her hair in disarray, and her face harried by tiredness and time, and the deep bags beneath her eyes, you could say she is somehow beautiful. I suppose you could say that. I suppose someone, somewhere might.

Is this what you call “existing?”

Shutting off the bathroom light, still she is there, dimly in the near dark, a spectral presence in the orange beam of the nightlight. Turning that off too, I banish the obverse woman of the mirror. 

I stand there, for a while, listening to the sound of my breathing and wondering, were the lights still on, if she might’ve done so too. Could I have caught the whisper of her breath? Would it have sounded wispy and thin, like mine, or would be bold? I close my eyes. My cooling heartbeat still paces through my ears. I squeeze one hand into a fist. Nails bite into my palm; I imagine them to be hers. The pain is clear. You might even call it refreshing.

Sometimes, I think the beast is me.

***

The next morning, I stir to life beside Naoki. Still fast asleep, he doesn’t move even as I lean in to peck him on the cheek. I crawl from under the covers, fold away my futon, and begin my morning routine. My head is free and clear. I am pleasantly empty. Stress is a foreign concept.

Dawn begins to break as I’m finishing my exercises in front of the TV. I shower, dress, make Haruki’s lunch, wake him and help with his clothes, and see him to the school bus before heading for my train, toting the plastic bag with Mr. Yoshida’s book, which now seems light as a feather. 

Inside, I am hollow. It is as if there is a great, cavernous emptiness within me, like a seaside cave, a place where you can shout and shout and hear nothing, ever, but the echo of your voice and the far-off murmur of waves against the shore. I am swimming inside myself, buoyant, like floating in lukewarm water. Whatever happened last night, perhaps it was like hitting a reset button or wiping clear a slate; a conclusive act. 

Well, whatever it was, I’m certainly glad it’s over with.

Sachiko, the young, plump receptionist, greets me at the front desk as I enter the office. “Ah, Kondo-san!”

“Good morning,” I say, offering her a nod as I head for my desk.

“Kondo-san, wait!” As I turn to look, slate grey and polka dots fill my vision. “A woman left this here for you, early this morning.”

My mind short-circuits. 

Sachiko is staring at me, arm extended, holding my umbrella.

“She… did?” I ask.

“She?” Sachiko asks. “Is she an acquaintance of yours?”

“Well, no… that is to say… we met briefly. She works at the bookstore near the train station. Yoshida-san sent me to retrieve…” I accept my umbrella from her, noticing how my hand lightly trembles. Hidden from sight, deep within my body, a tidal wave begins to swell. “T-that’s very gracious of her. I should send a Thank You note.”

“Well you’re in luck!” Sachiko says, smiling broad enough to show teeth. “Just a moment, just a moment…” She picks through the papers atop her desk for many painful seconds before chirping, loud enough for dogs to hear, “Ah, here it is!”

It is a business card, jet black. As soon as Sachiko turns away, too concerned with organizing the calendar on her computer to notice how my knuckles burn white as I hold the card with clenching fingers.

Her name, in kanji, is printed in an only slightly lighter shade of black, difficult to make out without turning the card to the light. Instead, what catches my eye is the stark white print that reads, in English block lettering: 

“TOMO MINATSUKI”

And beneath that, in simple script:

“Labrys Books; Proprietor”

Inside me, the tidal wave breaks ground upon my hollow shore.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this work and feel like reading a comment, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> If you’re interested in my other works, you can find my NSFW stuff at my website [bespokesmut.com](http://www.bespokesmut.com). I’m also open to commissions, you can drop requests for short fiction [in my tumblr ask box](http://zoegmiller.tumblr.com/ask) over at <http://zoegmiller.tumblr.com>and you can also join my mailing list at [Gumroad](https://gumroad.com/zoemiller#) for all the latest updates on my work! If you enjoy this, please share it around–it’s how I’ll grow! :)
> 
> <3 Thank you for reading! <3


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